


Valeriana

by Snowgrouse



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (Classic Series)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Drugs, Fellatio, Fightsex, M/M, Oldschool slash, PWP, Ravishment, Seduction, Telepathic Sex, old fic, poetic prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-14
Updated: 2007-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-15 01:13:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7199438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowgrouse/pseuds/Snowgrouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Castrovalva, the potion prepared by Portreeve has all the ingredients of a date rape drug. This fic explores the Master's attack on the Doctor while he's dozing away in The Dwellings of Simplicity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Valeriana

**Author's Note:**

> [Disclaimer from your good author: this is an older fic imported from the Prydonian, but it does, in fact, pre-date any and all Who fic archives. I pretty much wince at it now, so please, do not take this thing as representative of my writing in general! I mean, I still write pretentiously poetic, purple and morally dodgy fic, but I've *improved* at the morally dodgy and pretentiously poetic prose in the past twenty (!) years since I started on this one! The only reason I'm not orphaning or deleting this fic is because people have asked me not to. You see, before the Master arrived in the new series, this was one of the very few explicit Doctor/Master fics out there on the Web (yes, *that's* how old a fic we're talking here), and as such, this fic has sentimental value to many readers, I am told. So I haven't got the heart to wipe the fic off the face of the Internet, despite how embarrassed I am about it. But even us snarky old fandom aunties were teenagers once, you know? We've all got to start somewhere. So, all in all, I'm glad that--based on some of the reader responses--I managed to get *something* right even with this early offering, and that at least the mood and some of the images have brought some pleasure to some Doctor/Master fans out there. 
> 
> So, here we go. The summary, and everything else you see below is the original stuff, left as-is.]
> 
> ***
> 
> Warnings: Darkish. Cosmic angst, hazy consent, and more cosmic angst. Started when I was 19, was in the works for seven years but didn't get much better in the meantime--it was impossible to rewrite the fic completely, so I left it as it is, with a few tweaks. Warnings for the usual purple prose and being evil to the English language. And with someone as theatrical as the Master, well, purplitude is *really* easy... oh yeah, and the big point in this is that Time Lords *are* telepathic. The new series handily proved what I'd thought back when I started writing this way back when: telepathy happens via touch, especially touch to the head. So in this case, while the main POV is the Master's, he *can* read the Doctor's mind as if it is his. Just so you know.

Pulling the last strands of the Portreeve's white beard off his face, the Master sat back in his chair, tired after the day's masquerade. He gestured to Adric, trapped behind the illusory wall of the tapestry.  
  
"Go on, boy, fix me something soothing".  
  
Leaning his head back, his eyes half-closed, the Master gazed out of the window, waiting. There was a slight ripple in the air, as if a broken breath forced into concentration, and little by little the rays of the setting sun started turning brighter, richer in hue. Pale shades of reds and blues spread out on the horizon like giant wings, painting the faint ripples of clouds into a lavender trail across the darkening sky. The neverending lush jungle was bathed in a violent redness as the sun slowly crept into hiding, like a wounded lion crawling into its lair.  
  
You had to admit, the annoying brat had some spirit.  
  
Slowly, a blue-black night wrapped its warm cloak around the Dwellings Of Simplicity. A perfect summer night, with the heavy scent of night flowers in the air; a moonless, starry sky, even the distinct sound of crickets chirping away in the gardens.  
  
"All right, that's enough. Don't think you can draw the Doctor's attention by overdoing the effects."  
  
The Master grabbed a remote switch, blacking Adric out with a push of a button, temporarily freezing all calculations. Commanding the course of time, at least for a moment's peace--truly the most delicious, ultimate form of power. If only over this dimension, a small fragment in the endless web of space-time. There was something irritating about the idea, nagging at him somewhere in the back of his mind, but he pushed it away. Leaning his head on his hands, looking out into the darkness, he set his mind on sorting out the events of the past few days.  
  
His own rebirth into a new body had worked out rather easily, all things considered. In terms of functionality, Tremas' body was excellent. The feel of muscle on bone was exhilarating, the ability to finally breathe, talk and move without excruciating pain felt like walking on air. However, the Traken neural structure left a lot to be desired, compared to Time Lord psychic sensitivity and reflexes. It had all the same capabilities, but only half of them had had any exercise; he needed time to reconstruct new neural patterns and give the neurotransmitters a good jog.  
  
Well, minor failures aside, at least the Doctor was one step closer to inevitable death. The Master had recuperated quite well in the confines of his little paradise, but he knew the same couldn't be said of the Doctor.  
  
***************************  
  
High up in the tower, nestled in the warmth of the setting sun, wrapped in soft sheets and a hazy herbal intoxication, slept the newborn Doctor.  
  
Closing the windows, bringing darkness, himself quiet and treading softly like a black cat to the Doctor's bedside, was the Master.  
  
Watching, breathing, observing, imbibing the glorious sight before him.  
  
He commanded his own breath to a halt to listen to the Doctor's steady breathing, the slow rhythm of two new hearts, the silent energy of the regeneration weaving new patterns of bone, muscle and skin.  
  
Yet there was an uncertainty about this renewal; energy spilling out from old wounds in the Doctor's mind, the hearts skipping a beat or two, stumbling in an otherwise perfect rhythm. Between long periods of calm, a small furrowing on the smooth brow, a twitch at the corner of the mouth, fingers curling, then uncurling, back into deep relaxation.  
  
The Master sat on the edge of the bed, smiling to himself. One would think this moment would be far more dramatic. After all, it had been a noble duel, this. After a fight spanning centuries and lifetimes, you'd think the moment he would finally take the Doctor's life would be more... epic.  
  
But no, this was the moment; the reality of it clean, sharp and cool like a scalpel. Here was the Doctor's life, still and vulnerable, right here beside him. The fulfillment of a thousand wishes, the blood that would drown all bitterness, replacing it with ultimate freedom, ultimate power.  
  
The Master licked his lips and grinned.  
  
Preparations, preparations. He was glad to find an empty glass by the bedside table. Like a good boy, the Doctor had swallowed all of Portreeve's "medicine" without protesting once. Good. The rosemary was a strong muscle-relaxant, making it harder for the Doctor to resist his... ministrations, and the hypnagogue and euphoric valerian strong enough to slow down the regenerative process while still keeping his subconscious open for the Master to infiltrate. The Doctor's conscious mind was completely blacked out, thanks to some simple plant extracts from his beloved Earth's crude atmosphere. Strangely fitting, the Master mused.  
  
He placed a hand over the Doctor's chest, contemplating the young face as it was slowly learning through a thousand memories, frowning in sorrow, wincing in pain, bursting into a joyous smile. All of the Doctor's lives, eight hundred years of pure, unstained energy radiating from his mind, like a touch of the finest silk caressing the Master's worn nerves. Exquisite and wonderful, burning with intensity. A true Time Lord life force, a roaring sea of vitality.  
  
All of this in such an unnecessarily handsome shell--made to be broken. This beauty was wrong, it was stolen, cheated. It didn't belong to him.  
  
_You were always a little thief, weren't you, Doctor?_  
  
Yet, the life _was_ the Doctor's own. Now, more than ever in his lives, he looked like the young man the Master had known so well in his youth. So, so beautiful... Removing the glove on his right hand, the Master reached to brush strands of golden hair away from the Doctor's face.  
  
The touch made the Doctor sigh softly, the corners of his mouth turning up in a pleasant recollection of some gentle caress of the past. A mother? A lover? Whatever it was, the Master felt it too, a flash strong enough to seem like a memory of his own.  
  
In a way, it was.  
  
_I touched you like this once. Is that what you're dreaming of?_  
  
Caressing the Doctor's cheek, like then, he leaned in to listen. He could feel the brashness of youth, uncertainty being stomped down by need, a discovery of desire strong enough to make his own body tremble with its power.  
  
He remembered that first night, too.  
  
But feeling it now, through the Doctor, *as* the Doctor, was too much. It was distracting him from his task.  
  
The scent of jasmine and gardenia was all around, he could see the Prydonian Botanical Gardens stretching out in front of him, a wild, sheltering jungle constrained within cathedrals of glass. Yes, unmistakably jasmine and gardenia, enveloping him. That night so long ago, the Doctor had been muttering something about having to get up early in the morning, but the Master was already drawing him towards the nearest bench, grabbing his shoulders, rushing to kiss him.  
  
Like now. He found himself bent over the Doctor, almost lying on top of him. One knee between the Doctor's legs, he crouched, a hungry beast, completely taken over by the young man's beauty. His nostrils flared at the smell of new skin, clean and pure, intoxicating.  
  
For a fraction of a second, the Master struggled with his self-control.  
  
_Why not end it right now, why waste any time?_  
  
The Doctor answered the question for him by letting out a small moan, shifting underneath the Master, pressing his hips closer against him, sending out an urge so strong, so filled with life it hurt the Master's every cell with its raw power. All the while he could feel the Doctor's mind opening, like so many years ago, like a brilliant, strange flower unfurling its petals to the rising sun.  
  
Damn the Doctor. He couldn't be doing this on purpose. Exposing himself like this would be far too dangerous.  
  
_In this game, it was the Doctor who would be playing the part of the fool._  
  
There was no reason for the Master to rush here. The Doctor was truly and completely drugged out, there was nothing stopping the Master from... savouring his victory. His Trakenite body was reminding itself of its needs--it was as hungry for flesh as his Time Lord mind was for blood.  
  
The lust rising in him, he bent down to kiss those new lips, delicious, untouched.  
  
Sweetness. Anise and ginger on the Doctor's mouth, cool and burning at the same time. With no effort, the Master parted the Doctor's lips and explored his tastes and scents with little licks, much in the way a snake detects its prey. Underneath him, he could feel the Doctor tensing, then relaxing, giving in to the caress.  
  
Lifting the back of the Doctor's head with his hand, the Master deepened the kiss, sliding his mind into the Doctor's--both the Doctor's tongue and mind were trembling, but slowly warming, welcoming the intrusion. As if they'd never been apart.  
  
Stepping into the garden of the Doctor's mind, the Master found him waiting there, sitting calmly on the familiar gray marble bench, expecting him.  
  
The Master extended his hand in invitation.  
  
"Come, my dear friend, I've been expecting you."  
  
The Doctor lifted his hand to take the Master's, then hesitated. This time, the Doctor wore his new, innocent face, blue eyes looking up at the Master, as if trying to remember something.  
  
"Who are you?"  
  
The words broke through into the Master's conscious mind. He realized the Doctor had voiced the question aloud, even though he was still in a dream state, eyes moving nervously under heavy lids. Chuckling, the Master brushed his lips across the Doctor's ear.  
  
"Only your memory."  
  
And in the garden, he whispered too, "Only your memory."  
  
Amidst the soft green leaves, the Doctor answered with a soft laugh, like a child finding a lost toy. In the garden that was his memory, he took the Master's hand and drew him onto the bench beside him. Through their mental link, the Master felt how, indeed, the Doctor was choosing to remember only the moist air and his friend's warm touch, pushing all else aside. *Time*, the Doctor's drunken mind told the Master's, they had *all the time in the world*. And how the Master laughed!  
  
Outside, the Master bent to kiss the Doctor again, sweet triumph in his chuckle, both the memory and the surge of the Doctor's life-force fuelling his own desire. Slowly, he started pushing the Doctor's clothing aside, unbuttoning his own jacket, removing the other glove as well--needing to touch the Doctor fully.  
  
_Closer._  
  
The Doctor's rejuvenating energy flowed underneath the Master's hands in little static sparks, becoming stronger at every touch. The Doctor's shirt finally undone, the Master ran his hands lingeringly over the smooth, lean muscles of the chest and sides, drinking in the radiance, the exquisite *warmth* with his hands and eyes, devouring all this pale and trembling... *perfection* with his whole being, oh, so fulfilling, trembling himself with drunkenness.  
  
_Oh, my dear beloved friend, you are so strong and vigorous in body, yet so weak in resistance._  
  
_Just as I like you, Doctor._  
  
The Doctor's eyes were closed, but inside the dream they were open and wondering as the Master pulled away from the kiss. Clear blue pools you could sink a thousand leaden lies in, always willing to believe... the Master cupped the Doctor's cheek with his hand and captured those eyes with his own, drawing him in with soft words, just the words the Doctor needed.  
  
"My dear friend... you *do* remember this. Memory is the best teacher, is it not?"  
  
In both worlds, the Doctor hesitated, but did not move away. The Master's voice lowered in tone, as he raised both hands to caress the sides of the Doctor's face, slowly, all of his movements aligned with the rhythm of his words.  
  
"Now let that memory lead you deeper. Let it be your guide."  
  
Again mirroring his actions in the flesh, The Master took the Doctor's hands in his, stroking them idly while still looking deep into the dream-Doctor's eyes--pulling him deeper in. He placed the Doctor's hands on his own hips, keeping them in place, forcing him to remember.  
  
"Do you remember what happened?"  
  
Only bafflement on the Doctor's face, questioning, almost sadness at not knowing, frowning, trying...  
  
Then, in a flash, it all returned, poured from the Doctor's mind into the Master's and back again, reinforced. Pleasure in pain, the Doctor's secret hunger for sin, freedom from strict Gallifreyan laws through complete surrender, through blood and sweat and tears and come.  
  
The Doctor's face turned ashen, and he trembled. In the dream, he closed his eyes, and in the flesh, gripped the Master's sides so hard he made him grimace in frustration.  
  
Just like then. No need for a dream any more, the Doctor was well and truly his slave--he could read and control the Doctor's every thought.  
  
The Master let out a hearty, deep laugh as the Doctor collapsed against him, desperate, almost crying with need, wanting to kiss his friend, wanting to drown out the noise in his mind, begging for the Master to respond. The Master had to restrain the Doctor so he could enjoy his desperation fully--such energy, such endearing foolishness, such *desire*! Completely his and only his--wanting nothing more in the world than to be kissed by him, loved by him, caressed by him... The bliss of it. As the Doctor bent towards him, pleading for a kiss, the Master grabbed the Doctor's silky hair cruelly in his fist and held his head back. Oh, how beautiful the pain on the Doctor's fresh face, only the first of the wounds he'd inflict on that stolen youth.  
  
Cruelty painting a smile on his lips, he whispered over the Doctor's mouth.  
  
"Ah, the past... I can give you a taste of it, I promise."  
  
"All that you desire can be yours..."  
  
He bit the Doctor's lower lip hard, the Doctor's cry of pain even more delicious than the fresh red blood now sweetening his tongue. Smearing the blood all over the Doctor's still-begging lips, he continued:  
  
"...if you will only obey me and do as I say."  
  
He assaulted the Doctor's mouth with a sharp, hot, cruel tongue and vicious teeth. The Doctor's answering moan was low and deep, breaking into a sob, a sob of joy and pain, his need finally answered. And every sob was being drunk in, licked in by the Master with a guttural laugh, and he kept on pulling them from the Doctor's trembling mouth. Licks, bites, licks, sucks, on that wonderful, willing, surrendering tongue.  
  
The Doctor could not get enough, it seemed, when the Master felt himself being pulled closer, now chest to chest with the Doctor, and ah, that unmistakeable hardness growing in the Doctor's groin. The Master ground into it hard with his own, adoring the resulting sound resonating from the Doctor's mouth into his.  
  
"I see *this* is what you desire?" he whispered into the Doctor's mouth.  
  
The Doctor's eyes were still closed, a strange mixture of sleepwalking and trance, this display sprawled underneath him on the narrow bed. The Master grabbed the Doctor's arms and pinned them down onto the bed, again thrusting his own aching hardness against the Doctor's, only more roughly this time, and the sweet smell of pheromones and precome should have been enough of an answer, but oh, still those angelic lips whispered "yes", "yes" and "yes", in a joyous mantra of abandon.  
  
Still holding the Doctor's arms down, the Master lifted his weight off him.  
  
"Not just yet, my dear friend."  
  
Furrowed brow again under sweat-wet strands of golden hair, blood-painted lips forming a wordless question, body still twisting, the Doctor tried to pull the Master towards him by lifting his knees.  
  
The Master had other ideas. He straddled the Doctor high on his chest, knowing what the Doctor really liked, how low he would go, low enough to be banished from Gallifrey. He felt the Doctor's mind respond--like an automaton--to the signal of soft velvet falling upon his throat,  
the smell of precome, the warmth of the Master's cock. He could even see saliva mixing with blood on the Doctor's lips--that's it, what a *good* boy...  
  
Perversely gentle, he stroked and nudged those bruised lips again with his fingertips.  
  
"This is what you need first." The Master hissed with delight as the Doctor sucked on his fingers, impatient. "Yess..." he lowered himself, and slowly and precisely, placed the head of his aching, straining cock heavy on the Doctor's lips, marking them once again. Running his trembling fingers through the Doctor's hair, his voice thick with want.  
  
"Suck."  
  
Glistening wet tonguetip, murmuring lips, welcoming him in, the wet sound as the Doctor wrapped his mouth around the head of his cock and--he couldn't keep the moan from escaping his throat, leaned against the wall with one hand, supporting the Doctor's head with the other, oh, yes, thrusting in deeper, being pulled into that virgin mouth, completely willing, wanted, devoured... this was beautiful. It was making them both glow, a statue kissed to life by lust.  
  
  
The Master didn't need to even move, the Doctor reached his hands behind him, clutching, tearing at the black velvet at the Master's hips just to bring him closer, his tongue making amends for having to leave the Master's cock while moving into a better position, half-sitting on the bed. Wide, wet, lapping, kissing every inch, suckling the salt and the sweat, circling slowly around the head, then just breathing moisture over it... too good. So good that the Master had to grab the Doctor's head with both hands, snarling with impatience, forcing the jaw open with his hands and thrusting his cock into that damn teasing mouth, not caring if the Doctor made gagging, choking sounds, just pulled at the Doctor's hair and *fucked* his mouth, just like the bastard needed to be fucked, punished for his stupid pride.  
  
***  
  
Drifting out of unconsciousness, dreams emerged in the Doctor's mind. The sort of dreams that were as lucid and somehow even more realistic than waking life; the sort that weigh the limbs with lead and sink one down into the mattress.  
  
Maybe pressure was the trigger concept, maybe the pain of regeneration dragged out the memory of him, but all the Doctor knew was that the Master was *here*, right here, and there was nothing he could do about it. His conscious mind was lifting itself up, twisting his body with it, pushing to the surface, pushing the heavy darkness off him, struggling up, opening his eyes...  
  
A kick in his back sent the Doctor to his knees, and before he could reach forwards to support himself, his hands were snatched back and held down. The Master pushed his face down to the bedsheets, his familiar laughter caressing his mind as his hot breath caressed his ear.  
  
"There, Theta. That's how I like it."  
  
He yanked the Doctor's head back by the hair, tears of pain stinging the Doctor's eyes.  
  
"It's how *you* like it, too."  
  
And the Doctor knew, yes, this was exactly like at University, this was what he needed, this is what he'd been dreaming of, wanking himself raw, imagining the velvet heat over his body, breathing lust over his naked arse.  
  
"Please..."  
  
"Please, what?" The silken voice in his ear again.  
  
"Please... just... do it, do it."  
  
"Do what?"  
  
An inaudible whisper. The Doctor couldn't say it aloud, he never could. And the Master knew it, there was laughter in his voice again.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"..it. Do it!"  
  
And oh, the growling purr and the velvet and the tongue upon the Doctor's arse, licking, stabbing, fingers spreading oils into his arse--  
  
"Now, bite the pillow, pretty",  
  
\--and oh, oh, there it was, the Master's cock...  
  
"Is this what you want, Theta?"  
  
All he could utter was a soft sigh of "yes", a "yes" to the pain of something so big and hard and relentless tearing into him, but fuck it, it felt so, so good.  
  
"Ahhh--" and the Master rocked himself in, slowly, burning, hurting... he slipped under again, riding and being ridden, never full enough, voice hoarse, begging for more.  
  
***  
  
Had the Master imagined it, or was the Doctor regaining consciousness? He wasn't aware of any time passing, so good it felt to just *rut*, not that the Doctor could escape anyway, with his head in the pillow, his hands held back hard in the Master's iron grip, and best of all, his arse full of the Master's cock. Buried to the hilt, ramming in slowly, again, and again, the Doctor's cries of pain music to his ears.  
  
"It's been so long, Theta. So long."  
  
And then, a viciously hard thrust, another, a cry of victory escaping the Master's lips, cock deep in that wonderful heat, as he rocked himself deeper, in, in and out and in, again paving a way to the Doctor's mind while fucking him, deep and hard and perfect, just so perfect. It couldn't get any better than this, it was as if he needed nothing more than this...  
  
He was roughly moved aside, the Doctor bending down and to the side so that the cock slid out of his arse, frustrated, hard and wanting. The Master roared with rage, as the Doctor fought him, now fully awake, screaming back at him.  
  
"No. NO!"  
  
Even if the Master gripped his throat, strangling him, the Doctor drew away, leaving the Master cold, unfulfilled, unwanted.  
  
"You little bastard!"  
  
More growling, hasty fumbling, cock trying to find its nest, but the bastard, the bastard Doctor turned away and pushed his mind into the Master's, as hard as the Master had pushed into him. The scream outside and inside the Master's mind, it pierced and hurt, shrill and clear, the Doctor now free from his grasp.  
  
"OUT! OUT!"  
  
"Theta..."  
  
"OUT!"  
  
And the Master rocked on his knees, still dizzy with lust, still incandescent with rage.  
  
"OUT!"  
  
The surge of light from the Doctor's mind was too powerful, too overwhelming.  
  
He had to tear himself away, doubling over with the pain, coldness in the pit of his stomach, as the Doctor's light and warmth washed over the clean, empty and frozen landscape of his mind--hurting, scraping, exposing every dark corner, blowing away every twisted shadow, tearing out everything and raising it up to the light. The Doctor was examining him, inside him, his own bright spirit a mirror in which the Master saw himself, his own mind, all too clearly, a golden mirror reflecting a dead desert, the soil dry, cracked and broken.  
  
With a scream, he threw himself back, away, away, still clutching at the sheets, opening his eyes from the vision to the bleakness of the bedchamber, his sight still swimming with blood, the light still a shrill noise in his ears.  
  
In front of him, the Doctor's face, infuriatingly calm and peaceful, even more so in the middle of all this madness. A hand. The Doctor was fully awake and extending out his hand towards him, asking. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought the Doctor was pleading.  
  
"It's still not too late to stop. I am begging you--"  
  
He was still asking him to stop? Now? As if all the centuries between them could be wiped away, just like that, with a simple magician's gesture? Even from the Doctor, that sounded ridiculous.  
  
But still. In the haze that the swirling energy from the Doctor's mind cast over the room, the Master saw a cup in the Doctor's hand, the cup that had previously held the drug. A cup of clean water to finally end all this pain, to wash the bitterness away, water the desert and make everything grow again...  
  
The Master lifted his eyes to meet the Doctor's.  
  
"You've never begged anything from me, Doctor, you've always commanded. I will not accept this poison you offer."  
  
Ice forming over his eyes again, cool and soothing ice, over his heart, and his voice.  
  
"Not now, or ever again!"  
  
The Master struck the Doctor's hand hand with all his might. The cup flew from the Doctor's hand and shattered into a thousand pieces on the floor.  
  
The Master rose slowly from the bed, buttoning his trousers. The Doctor rested against the wall, shaking his head, more sad than surprised.  
  
"I cannot understand. Why throw it all away, again and again?"  
  
The Master did not answer, but looked away instead. The Doctor would never understand--he was a fool to assume he ever could. Buttoning his jacket, pulling at his gloves and straightening his hair, he returned himself to the state beyond any desire towards his old friend. Wiping away all traces of it and returning to the comfort of coldness.  
  
He turned back to face the Doctor, him still openly questioning, never comprehending. He sat on the bed beside the Doctor and drew a deep breath.  
  
With a swift, unexpected move, he hit the Doctor hard on the neck with the back of his hand. The Doctor collapsed on the bed unconscious.  
  
"This is *my* way of wiping the slate clean, dear Doctor."  
  
The Master prepared to leave. Standing beside the door, he considered the Doctor for a while, shaking his head at the endless innocence and endless understanding that would drive the Doctor to his death soon enough.  
  
"For now, I shall let you sleep and dream your hopelessly benign dreams. But tomorrow I will make you see, Doctor. Whether you choose to do it by joining me or giving up your life, I will make you see. You just wait until tomorrow."  
  
Hissing, turning away, he slammed the door shut and walked away, fading away from the Doctor's memory--and his own.  
  
  
***  
End  
  


* * *


End file.
